


all that time, never truly seeing

by takethebreadsticksandRUN



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: And Romance, Archivist!Jon, Desolation!Tim, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Not Canon Compliant At All, QPR TIMSASHA, SO MUCH FLUFF, a little hurt/comfort, but literally not at all like canon, chapter count tentative it might be longer, disney-typical falling in love, elias is slimy, even elias gets a husband, he's kind of a weird father figure?, here we goooo on another WIP adventure, i literally cannot stress this enough, mostly found family, no more than usual, or ex husband depending on the chapter, some angst in there somewhere, stranger!sasha, tangled is just the best disney movie okay, that's very important, the Tangled AU nobody asked for, the entities are there but also not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27377092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethebreadsticksandRUN/pseuds/takethebreadsticksandRUN
Summary: This is the story of a little boy raised in darkness and knowledge, a man with only one weakness, and three very important adventurers.Who are they?A man made of fog and kindness, a woman who was not quite sure who she wanted to be yet knew who she was, and a man whose smiles could outshine the stars.Jonathan Sims was not a lonely child. He does not remember being one. All he remembers is a life spent among the books. He wouldn’t have it any other way.That is, until one very fateful adventure, involving a sword-fighting horse, a gentle touch, and finally deciding for himself what his future was going to be.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 42
Kudos: 58





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> well here we are like two days after finishing my last project with a TANGLED AU!! i'm so excited and i've actually got this one planned out so this should run smoothly. idk about an update schedule we'll see, i don't really like that kind of pressure, but the next chapter should be up pretty soon. this is just a prologue, the rest of the fic will not be in this same style but i was just ~feeling it~ you know?  
> anways  
> enjoy my latest caffeine induced AU! let me know what you think, i can't wait to share it with you guys  
> xxx

Long ago, in a place so far away you couldn’t even put it on a map, a kingdom of stories nestled in between two mountains. Happy stories, romances, funny little comedies, tragedies- you name it. The people lived contentedly, knowing powers much larger than their stories meddled in their lives. It wasn’t to be avoided, you see, humanity has always been at the mercy of something beyond comprehension. Fate, divinity, or in this case, fear.

Fear can’t hurt you as long as you don’t stand out. Fear singles out the weak, the bold, those with lives full of adventure, and those who huddle in their rooms. If you are not part of the bustling herd, fear will snatch you up and eat you alive.

Metaphorically, of course.

But maybe, just _maybe_ , literally as well.

Fear ruled the King and Queen as much as they ruled the people. Whispers of treason, of unhappy citizens, of backstabbing friends, led them to make calculated decisions. This is a normal part of any reign, paranoia is a natural side effect of power.

In this case, however, the fear that plucked the puppet strings of monarchy was a little more, _hands-on_ , shall we say. The Spider crawled through the thoughts of the once-good King, whispering half-truths and not-quite lies, knowing _exactly_ how he and his wife would react. Counting on it, in fact.

You see, the Spider had a way with words. A way to say the ones that don’t matter, how it carefully omits the ones that do, weaving together a web that we are all caught in, eventually.

What better place to hatch than in a castle? Ample room to grow, to spread, to multiply and consume. It is unfortunate, yet inevitable.

The King and Queen ruled for many years. They were not unhappy times, exactly, not uncomfortable, they simply existed. Something was brewing beneath the surface of careful announcements and measured decrees. The people noticed this, but nobody said anything. Live the life you want to, it’s all possible. Stay warm and dry. Don’t let the fear single you out.

Toward the end of their reign, the King and Queen began to grow old and weary, oh so weary, of counting their words and measuring others. They had no children, no hope for a peaceful transition from one dynasty to the next.

The King and Queen decided to let their nephew take the throne.

The Spider had other plans.

Born in a small house, completely unlike the royal castle, a small baby boy slept while his grandmother held him, whispering to herself lullabies she had sung to her daughter, dead in childbirth.

What made this child unique? Why had fear, in this case, Fear, caught an interest in him?

The answer is simple if you do not look deeper.

Jonathan Sims did not cry when he was born. He did not cry when he was cold, nor when his bottom was wet, nor when his father died when he was a toddler. The fact was Jonathan Sims did not see the world the way the rest of the people did, in measures of black and white, good and bad, sad and happy.

No, he only saw grey. Information to be gathered. Memories to be made then tucked away. People who entered his life, inevitably leaving. He was not afraid, exactly. He simply watched the world around him with dark eyes and waited for when it would be his turn to tell the stories so prized by the people.

He saw life as a tapestry of stories, different sentences weaving together something much deeper than simply good days and bad weeks, of happy experiences and sorrow.

The Spider saw him watching and decided one day, he would rule the land. A strong leader is an effective one, but even better is one that can be controlled without anyone noticing.

The King was a puppet with free will.

Jonathan Sims did not care enough to fight against, well, _anything_. Not carefree or careless, just neutral. Waiting.

Watching.

The Spider whispered to the King and Queen of this little boy, planting ideas of adoption, of finding an heir outside the bloodline before it was too late.

But all plots take time, and the Spider was not one to rush into things.

On the other side of the kingdom, a man named Elias Bouchard noticed two very peculiar things.

One, both the Queen’s dress and the King’s cape had been made of spider silk.

Two, a little boy with no family watched the world, but more importantly, he saw and _remembered_. He didn’t live, but he remembered.

Elias was a watcher as well, not by nature, as little Jon was, but by choice. He saw the plans trailing around the castle, shimmering in candlelight and secret stars, twining around the very same little boy, and decided it was time for a plan of his own.

Jonathan Sims had no family.

The King and Queen had no heir.

The Spider had no time left.

But Elias Bouchard had a tower, a talent for lying, and a way to hide from the Fear as he chose.

This is the story of a little boy raised in darkness and knowledge, a man with only one weakness, and three very important adventurers.

Who are they?

A man made of fog and kindness, a woman who was not quite sure who she wanted to be yet knew who she was, and a man whose smiles could outshine the stars.

Jonathan Sims was not a lonely child. He does not remember being one. All he remembers is a life spent among the books. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

That is, until one very fateful adventure, involving a sword-fighting horse, a gentle touch, and finally deciding for himself what his future was going to be.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story begins, like many others, in the chapters before change. This is slightly strange when you think about it. Where should one drop into a tale? The middle? The ending? What part of this story carries the value, the importance?  
> Consider this, as we follow the voyeuristic practice of watching another drift out of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here you go lovelies! i'm so excited for this au but this style is...hard...i'm not used to writing like this? so it might take a bit longer to get into the swing of it, i would really appreciate it if you would comment and let me know what you think!  
> xxx

Our story begins, like many others, in the chapters before change. This is slightly strange when you think about it. Where should one drop into a tale? The middle? The ending? What part of this story carries the value, the importance?

Consider this, as we follow the voyeuristic practice of watching another drift out of sleep.

Unlike most people, Jon woke all at once, going from dead asleep to dead awake in half a second. He rolled onto his side, away from the small nest of pillows and blankets, groaning slightly. His eyes were closed, but he could have told anybody what his surroundings looked like down to the angle of the books piled on his nightstand.

Stretching, catlike in the sun from the high windows that never seemed to darken during the day, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and onto the cold stone floor. He shivered, his feet bare. Jon rubbed his eyes with one hand, quickly assessing his situation.

It was around seven in the morning, the same time he woke up every day. There once was pride in this, once was pleasure in keeping time better than a clock, but alas! As adults tend to do, he had lost sight of the magic in watching the sunrise, which is, dear reader, quite the tragedy.

The little voice in his head cheerfully informed him of the enormous list of tasks that needed attending to, from mapping out the early tribe’s history on the giant map that took up an entire wall, organizing the new books Elias had acquired, to cleaning the upper floor of the Panopticon’s main tower. _His_ tower. The Archives, full of books and papers and shelves with secret doors that led to secrets Jon had managed to tuck away.

He groaned once more, thinking of the busy day ahead of him.

“Time to start work, I suppose,” he said to the small rose growing on the windowsill. “What should I do first?”

The rose didn’t reply, as flowers tend to keep their silence and secrets from us.

“I suppose you’re right, I really should finish reading those old histories first. Elias seemed rather insistent on that point.” Jon stood, pulling off his sleep shirt and flinging it to the side in one quick movement, practiced morning after morning to land just to the side of his dresser.

“It does get so dreadfully dull here, but there is always something to do.” His voice was muffled as he tugged a green cotton shirt over his head. “Part of the beauty, isn’t it?” Jon pulled on a pair of trousers. “Every day is the same. No unwanted surprises.” _No welcome changes, either_ ¸ he almost said, but didn’t. Even to nobody but the rose he couldn’t say certain things out loud. It was too final, too certain.

Even in novels, he noted, they didn’t say everything aloud, as if the author of the tales, the spinner of fictional destinies, dared not write the words. Even when wearing the mask of fiction, it was a vulnerability of sorts, to send your thoughts out into the world like that. One must keep secrets even from pages, for if you forget what makes you unique, what is the one thing you have to offer the world but reserve for yourself, then what makes life interesting?

The answer is not much. But do be careful not to hide things from yourself; there is a difference between the grandeur of delusions and delusions of grandeur.

There was nothing magnificent about Jon’s life. There could have been, had he been looking, but he had taught himself to see over things and beyond things, always staring around for hints and clues of meaning, forgetting that the most complicated answers often lie in the simplest of places: right in front of you.

Every morning had the same monotony, the same rhythm. It was comforting, he supposed. Safe. Wake up, assess the day, then plunge right into the tasks that needed to be completed. As Head Archivist (and the only Archivist, as it so happens), he had a great deal of responsibility. Burdens of past tales that needed to be carried into the future, the crooked pages of history that needed untangling, and worlds that were so far from Jon’s own simple life that needed to be protected.

He may have forgotten how to look for magic, how to look for beauty instead of around it, but he did know that escaping, although a form of bondage itself, into another’s words, was a dwindling art, a vanishing presence among the tomes of dusty wars and bloody forests.

However, its value never came into question, only its availability.

Unfortunately, Jon found himself turning to his small pile of doorways less and less, slowly losing a grasp on their value as well. Had he noticed this was happening, his subsequent actions would be difficult to determine. Would he force himself back into the realm of faeries and firefly-stars, trying to memorize everything for the clinical purpose of not forgetting? Would he shelve them with a sigh of disdain, assuming their value was less than that of an informational volume? Or would he let them sit there, flipping through pages when he felt the siren-song of younger actions tug at his bones again?

Whether or not this is irrelevant to the story at hand is up to you to decide. Judge a man based on his actions or judge him on his thoughts, that’s your choice.

Before I continue with this web of sight and blindness, do remember two things:

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. In your judgment, if you chose to make one, remember the burns of your own mistakes against your skin before you brand another. 

Two, do we need to be throwing rocks at all? Is this strictly necessary? Is it not enough to listen, to read, to join the dead in fictional realms without trying to measure them with a moral code?

Now let us return to the world of stories told and stories forgotten, where Jonathan Sims, who was not present for this monologue but was instead trying to coax a pot of milk and oats into something resembling oatmeal, hummed to himself. It was an old song, one his mother would have sung to him.

However, he had no way of knowing that firsthand, as both his memories of a time when he would have been sung to and the people who would have cared enough to rock him to sleep with music have long since disappeared.

A time before Elias- well, that was a fleeting breath of time, leaving him with nothing to remember, not even the shape of the word _home_ on his lips. His parents were long since dead, his mother passed in childbirth and his father mere years after her. Jon didn’t remember either of them. He had been four years old when Elias took him in, found wandering the streets, dirty and orphaned.

Jon blinked, bringing himself back into the present, which was, per usual, unsatisfactory. He sighed, taking the pot off the flames and scraping it into a wooden bowl. It never turned out right, even after nearly twenty years of living this way.

Beyond the tiny kitchen lay a labyrinthine maze of books, circling hallways branching off into dusty rooms with even dustier sunlight drifting in. The tower Jon called home, the Panopticon where he had been raised, was large enough to hide in but small enough he would always be found.

Elias was, more often than not, out on some sort of trip. He never told Jon where he was going, rarely letting him know he was leaving, but he always returned exhausted and smelling of the sea.

As Jon walked down the hall to the room where he was organizing history books chronologically, his feet padding against carpet over rough stone, he let his thoughts spiral to a land beyond stories, places below his windows, somewhere where he was free, in the most basic sense of the word.

Because, as one is prone to realize at one point, he was trapped, in almost every sense of the word.

Beyond this realization there lay little emotion. No passion to escape, no fear of imprisonment, no resentment nor anger. What was he to do? There was nothing for him out there, as Elias so often told him. His place was here, in the Archives. The importance of his role far outweighed any brief longing he might have for something new. It was childish, he thought.

Let us stop here for a moment and read that sentence again. Read it until you understand why he might be afraid of the words, read it until you can explain the flaw in his logic.

Ready?

Jon was afraid of freedom, afraid to feel. Black and white made the world so much easier to stomach. Why would he fear imprisonment? He is already stuck, trapped between piles of meaningless words and the doorless walls. There was nothing wrong with calling the Panopticon his home and never leaving. He was needed here. He was important here.

Jon pulled the heavy wooden door open, exposing a mess of maps and books and old pens with broken nibs. Rolling up the sleeves on his shirt, he set to work, pushing all thoughts of prison cells and what springtime might smell like.

Thus you see, reader, the danger of being half content. It leaves one unprepared and even frightened of change when change can be the bringer of something new.

Of _someone_ new.

As he shuffled books into shelves and papers into piles, Jon smiled to himself faintly, exacting what pleasure he could from working hard enough his thoughts went silent. At least, all of the ones that burned just enough to be unpleasant did.

Hours later he heard the telltale footsteps announcing the arrival of Elias. Jon stood, dusting his hands on his trousers, moments before the door opened.

“Jon,” he called, “I would like to speak with you.”

He wound his way through the shelves to where Elias was standing, looking, as always, like he was in some state between arrogance and supreme discomfort. It didn’t suit him, Jon mused, but then again, nothing truly did.

“Yes, Elias?”

He cleared his throat. “I will be leaving the tower tomorrow. As it is your birthday soon, I believe the tradition is to get you a gift. Is there anything you would like?”

Jon registered this dully. He had nearly forgotten his birthday, there was very little to mark the passage of time other than the movements of the stars.

Now, he had several things dripping from the tip of his tongue just now. The question was whether or not he could voice them.

Gathering his courage, Jon said tentatively, “Maybe I could accompany you this time. I believe as Archivist, it’s my job to record information and learn all I can. This could be an excellent opportunity to see the world, even just glimpse it to help put my studies into perspective.”

Almost instantly he regretted it. Elias frowned, his words disapproving before they hit the air. “Now, Jon, that just won’t do. It’s not safe for you out there, not yet. You are needed here. Is there anything else?”

He wasn’t disappointed, you see disappointment requires hope in the first place. Jon shook his head, nothing more he was brave enough to say.

“Well then, I’ll return at some point in the near future. You have everything you need, I do hope you’ll take this time to finish up those history projects.”

And then he was gone, leaving nothing but a sour taste in Jon’s mouth.

He returned to his work quickly, not daring to linger over the encounter. Elias’s absence changed nothing, save the threat of company. Just another handful of days spent alone.

Nothing monumental happens when you are alone. At least, not to you. Hundreds of other people might be experiencing the greatest moment in their life, their deepest sorrows, the last time they will laugh, the first time they say something that will change everything.

Jon didn’t consider this as he dutifully read through war histories and tribal legends, shelving them according to their arbitrary dates.

Somewhere far away, a legend was being stolen.

In a castle Jon was once destined to grow up in, a thread had snapped.

In a tower beyond the kingdom between two mountains, a knot came untied. That knot anchored a plot once so carefully woven by two people, each trying to trap the other.

In a small room of paper stories, Jonathan Sims quietly worked, unaware of the way other people tended to get caught in a spiders web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew this is hard. un beta'd, so lmk if i made a mistake.  
> thoughts?


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which three very important characters are introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! hey you! bet you didn't see this update coming! and honestly! i didn't either!  
> it's been almost five months and....i have nothing to say for myself. i'm not going to promise more updates or any schedules, but i really really really want to finish this. i got caught up in the little details and that kept me from writing this for literal MONTHS, then the other day i realized that hey, it's not that big of a deal. i'm writing fanfiction to learn and have a good time, not for my job.  
> so i wrote this!  
> if the style is a little inconsistent or the action isn't very great, please forgive me, i'm doing my best here.  
> so take this humble offering with my sincerest apologies....  
> enjoy!  
> xxx

Far away from the tower of knowledge where dusty volumes were the only voices Jon could hear, a very strange thing was taking place. There was a group of people in the castle. Now, that is not exactly out of the ordinary, people entered the castle quite often in fact. What was different this time was these three people, in particular, had not used the front doors nor were they on their way to visit the queen and king.

No, they had crept, undetected, past the towers and guards and walls and were currently huddled in the treasury.

“How much time do you think we have?” Tim whispered, his voice rough and heated with urgency.

Sasha glanced behind her at the open door. “Probably about five minutes before they notice we’re here. Might be more if _someone_ hadn’t chucked a rock across the decorative pond and made a racket,” she said, with a pointed glare at Tim, who shrugged.

“I’m sorry, but that picture of perfection was just _begging_ to have a rock skipped across it. Can you blame me?” He gestured pleadingly, pretending to fall to his knees in front of her.

“Tim,” Martin chided, focused on the wooden box in front of them, studying it. “Let’s not waste what little time we’ve got left, yeah?”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Work your magic, Martin.”

He grinned. “With pleasure.”

Another thing that made this trio stand out in a crowd was they were not, in fact, entirely human. They were some mix between the unholy and divine, freaks of nature and entirely at peace with the fact. Now is not the time to elaborate on this, but it would be best to warn you before what happened next.

Martin extended his arms toward the unassuming wooden box, his fingertips dissolving into fog. With a quick swipe of his hands, his fingers dispersing lightly into the deceptively simple lock. He fidgeted for a moment, wisps of vapor rising from his body with every movement. Sasha and Tim watched him quietly disarming the hidden traps, tripwires releasing and metal clinking softly. They had seen this before and were unsurprised but not without awe.

“There you go,” Martin said proudly, solidifying as he withdrew his hands from the box and unlatched it.

Sasha cheered in a hushed voice, trying not to be heard. “You’re incredible, what would we do without you?”

“You’d have to figure out how to actually pick a lock, that’s for sure,” he said teasingly. Tim stepped forward, light on his feet as Martin made way for him.

“And that would be a tragedy. Let’s see if all that fuss was worth it, hm?” He lifted the lid creakily and reached in, gingerly taking out a delicate crown made of a strange metal. It seemed to glow softly as it reached the light, but not in the way that a jewel or a coin would.

A strange green shimmer dissolved into the air like a final breath of pollen in the spring, dissipating before any had the chance to register it fully.

Instead of gold or silver wrought into an ornate crown, it had the appearance of being woven of dark metal. It could have been tarnished had it not had such an even finish, thin strands of metal twisting almost like threads around each other. In the center of the crown was a minute green jewel, winking in the sunlight.

There is a peculiar feeling that accompanies falling a very short distance or catching your breath in the winter, almost as if you have forgotten something very small but very important. Imagine this feeling, then you can imagine what these three felt as they stared at the crown Tim was holding.

“Be careful, Tim,” Sasha said softly, her hands outstretched lightly. “That looks ancient.”

He grinned at her. “ _And_ priceless. I suppose you were right about this, Sasha.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m always right. Can I?”

He handed it to her wordlessly.

Martin watched them, less wowed at the ancient crown and more worried about their inevitable discovery. “Not to be a worrywart,” he said, sounding exactly like a worrywart, “But I really think we should go.”

Sasha was about to agree, tucking the spindly crown into Tim’s satchel, when she froze.

Reader, I think you and I both know that it is when things finally are going right that everything falls apart. So is the pattern of the universe, it seems, constantly following up excitement with disappointment with hope with fear with –

Well, I believe you know what I mean.

Which is why you will understand that at this moment, with treasure at their fingertips, it is entirely fitting that the alarm bells began to ring.

Tim swore and whirled to face the door. “We should have at least another couple minutes,” he said, trying to assess the threat without actually seeing it.

“Well, lads, we’re long overdue for a high-stakes escape,” Sasha said, leading the way out of the treasury.

From somewhere dangerously close, they could all hear the shouting of guardsmen, accompanied by the ominous screech of metal on metal.

“I don’t think we’re going to make out the same way we got in,” Martin muttered, drawing himself up to his full (and considerable) height. “Sasha, do you know another way?”

She nodded quickly, setting off down the stone hall at a run, Tim hot in her heels, Martin following them at a larger distance, checking over his shoulder periodically to make sure they weren’t being followed.

They might be talented, but they did lack one important virtue – stealth, which made breaking into the royal castle and attempting to steal a priceless artifact out from under the nose of a few dozen guards _very_ difficult.

In order to picture our merry men and their daring adventure, I believe this is a fitting place to briefly describe them.

Sasha moved with a strange sort of grace that lent itself more to a performer than a thief. She was tall and lean, her gleaming eyes and bright smile blinding against her midnight skin. Unless she was on a job, her hair haloed her head like some sort of frizzy mane.

Today, however, the guards stood against a tired woman, darting towards them with determination in her eyes but none of the skill that someone who had broken into the palace should have. Her hair was braided back neatly, some of it escaping the tight rows.

Tim followed her closely, as he always did, in danger or not. He was tall, not as tall as she was, much to his chagrin. He walked like a cat, stepping quickly like the floor beneath his feet was burning coals. He had rough skin, burned too many times from sun and flames alike.

When he looked up, there was fear in his blue eyes, but beneath that was something simmering, dangerous.

Martin followed behind them, not like he had been forgotten but like he was a shield, a protector. He was much more solidly built than the other two, with wide shoulders and obvious muscle peaking out of his roughly woven shirt.

In Tim’s mind, they looked like quite the band of legendary outlaws, with hardened faces and confident steps.

But, reader, let us be realistic.

From the perspective of the guards, they were a scraggly trio of nobody’s who had stolen a priceless artifact with nothing but sheer dumb luck.

As it turns out, neither of them was correct.

“Tim?” Sasha hissed through her teeth, spotting the heavily armed guards at the end of the corridor. “What do we do?”

He quickly turned and began to run back the other direction, motioning for Martin to do the same. “Other way, other way,” he muttered.

Martin didn’t move, hands raised. “Um, guys…” He jerked his head backwards, to where another group of guardsmen was approaching slowly but steadily. “Plan B, anyone?”

Sasha sighed in exasperation. “Alright, next time, I’m going to be the one in charge of scheduling.”

“Hey! This isn’t my fault!”

She patted Tim’s arm consolingly. “I know, love, I know.”

Here we see demonstrated an interesting phenomenon of human behavior: when trapped between walls, the first course of action is generally to ignore those walls and carry on as if life is totally normal and you are not being cornered by the law for attempting to steal from under the king’s nose.

Martin quickly glanced at both of the threats, cataloging them quickly. “We’re going to have to fight our way out,” he said, speaking fast and low. “Don’t lose what we came in here for. Tim, can you distract them for a moment?”

The clanking of metal grew louder as the guards drew closer. The leader of them all, or at least the one with the fanciest helmet, stepped forward. “In the name of the King, you are hereby ordered to halt and return what does not belong to you,” she said in a loud and confident voice. “Unless you value your lives as little as we do, you _will_ comply.”

Martin nodded subtly, giving Tim the go-ahead.

“Yeah, well, guess what-“ He strode forward, drawing himself up to his full height and spreading his hands, “-I have very low self-esteem and no survivalist instincts.” Tim winked, and in that instant fire shot up from his hands, licking along his fingers hungrily. He flipped his palms over deliberately and concentrated, somehow setting the stone alight.

Instinctively the guards drew back, some crying out in shock as Tim somehow continued to walk toward them, burning.

“What the-“ the woman gasped, staring in horror as fire climbed up the walls. “What are you?”

He inclined his head. “Not a what, but a _who_ , and I answer to sweetheart, handsome, or occasionally, Timothy Stoker.” 

He was, of course, bluffing. The only person to call him _sweetheart_ had done so mockingly, in that teasingly attractive way of a rivalry.

They were long gone, but all Tim needed to do was stall for half a minute or so, until…

Behind him was a great slam and a shout of pain. Everyone whirled around to see Martin somehow standing _behind_ the line of guards, or what used to be a line. It now resembled a scattered group of people trying to get away from him, the crumpled form of another guard at his feet.

All hell broke loose, formation forgotten as these poor soldiers faced the unknown with fear in their eyes and tremors in their fingers. Several people ran back at that instant. They are neither smart nor cowardly, but simply human.

The remaining four charged forward, swords drawn, uttering several different cries of outrage, bravery in the face of fear, and some animalistic instinct that only a select few possess and which defies all attempts to understand and define.

Here, we will call it loyalty to ignorance.

Martin stood his ground, not wavering as they all converged on him. A split second before they reached him, he shouted, “ _Now_!” and dissipated into a cloud of fog.

All of the guards crashed into one another. If this were a cartoon, they would have bounced back from the impact comically, perhaps falling to the ground and rubbing their heads comically. 

Alas, this was not a cartoon, and they rammed into each other with an ear-shattering crash, collapsing on top of each other and groaning loudly, not even attempting to get up.

Tim broke into a run, leaping over them with a muttered apology. Martin materialized next to him, shaking off wisps of fog and breathing heavily.

“That,” he panted, “was a mess. Keep moving, Sasha said she’ll meet up with us in the woods.”

Tim grunted in response, leading the way back out of the castle the way they had come, albeit with a lot more noise behind them and a fair amount of alarm bells ringing discordantly.

A few minutes of uninterrupted running and several wrong turns later, they found themselves outside of the castle, facing the endless expanse of forest bordering it. It wasn’t truly endless, of course, few things truly are, but it is still used to describe traditionally finite concepts, such as life, love, and suffering.

“We should keep going,” Martin said urgently as Tim showed signs of slowing. “They’re bound to have horses and more guards that can easily find us.”

“Just…give me…a minute…” he panted, stopping as they reached the first straggled line of trees.

Martin conceded, glancing around warily for any shadows that shouldn’t have been there. This was, of course, a wise move on his part, as they were vulnerable out in the open, but he made a mistake almost everyone does.

He forgot to check for things that didn’t cast a shadow. In an unfamiliar place, that is one of the first signs that something is dreadfully, terribly, and irreversibly wrong. The shadows in this story are all where they belong, but do take note – stay alert and stay alive.

The shadows are always watching.

Nearby, there was a great clanking. They both jumped, startled, before Tim conjured a handful of white-hot flames and Martin turned see-through, ready for a fight.

A soldier stepped out from behind a tree. “Hello, boys,” she said, a hand resting casually on the hilt of her sword. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Her eyes flicked between them, taking note of their defensive stature. “Antsy, are we?”

“Nosy, are we?” Tim mimicked.

She laughed heartily, raising her hands in surrender. “I’m just messing with you, it’s me-“ Between one blink and the next, the soldier’s armor melted away into a simple tunic and cloak, revealing Sasha, hiding behind the face of one of the guards they had been on the run from.

She shook out her hood, stretching her limbs slightly, like they had been cramped inside another’s body. Which, in fact, they had been.

Martin pressed a hand to his chest, letting out a sigh of relief. “Goodness, Sasha, you really scared me.”

Tim extinguished his fire, striding forward and hugging her. “Glad to see you’re safe,” he said fiercely.

She smiled. “Yeah, I’m fine. You two unhurt as well?”

They both nodded.

“Wonderful. That was…” she trailed off, choosing her next words delicately. “…a disaster.”

Martin nodded emphatically. “How about next time we _don’t_ break into the castle with no escape plan?”

“Or at least let us bring our knives,” Tim added, pulling back.

“I think I’m with Martin here. Hopefully, it was worth it and we don’t have to work ever again.” Sasha looked at Tim skeptically. “You do still have the crown, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course I do.”

She nodded distractedly. “Good, good.”

Martin glanced behind them. “We can figure out what to do with it later,” he said decidedly, “Right now, we need to get moving.”

Sasha nodded in agreement, leading the way into the dark heart of the forest, away from the wake of sound they left.

In the distance, Tim heard the high-pitched neigh of a horse. His hair stood on end, he did not know why.

Miles away, Jon felt something shifting, changing, like a thread plucked in a spider’s web, making the entire thing vibrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly  
> the reason i started this up again was because i really needed the validation that doesn't come with writing OG fiction for fun, so i'm not lying when you say that your comments keep me going and fuel my writing process  
> perhaps........leave one.......telling me what u thought?  
> idk just an idea
> 
> also i'm having a literal blast just sprinkling in little callbacks to canon n such, if you spot one and want to shout it out, go for it! i'll tell you if it's intentional or not ;)

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts?


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